


The Fossegrim

by lee14324



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fossegrim, How Do I Tag This, Hurt Bucky Barnes, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Water spirit bucky, creature!bucky, graphic depictions of penises, norse lore, vague setting and time period because its fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 14:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13010175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lee14324/pseuds/lee14324
Summary: The Scandinavian näck were male water spirits who played enchanted songs on the violin, luring women and children to drown in lakes or streams. Not all of them were malevolent; many stories exist that indicate the nøkken were harmless to their audience and attracted not only women and children, but men as well with their sweet songs. Stories also exist where the Fossegrim agreed to live with a human who had fallen in love with him, but many of these stories ended with returning to his home.–Trollmoon, Male Water CreaturesAKA Steve falls in love with a fiddle playing water spirit.





	The Fossegrim

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
>   
>  The Fossegrim by Hans Gerhard Sørensen
> 
>   
>  _“Once upon a time there was a Fossegrim,_  
>  _a strange creature who inhabited a hole on the riverside._  
>  _It was common knowledge that whoever paid his price,_  
>  _which was a great slab of meat,_  
>  _could listen to his music as he started playing his fiddle._  
>  _When the Fossegrim received a big shank of meat,_  
>  _he would play the most beautiful tunes for hours._  
>  _But, when someone fed the Fossegrim a small piece of meat,_  
>  _he would only play a short tune and then disappear.”_  
>    
>  _– Cathy Sidhu, A Tale of the Fossegrim_

Every morning, at least an hour before the first light of dawn begins to brighten the night sky, Steve walks to the waterfall just north east of the Brookeland forest. It's not close to his residence by any means, but he prefers solace to convenience and the waterfall is scarcely visited by the townspeople due to the lore of the creatures that lurk in the wilderness during the late night through the wee hours. Here, he trains his body, given to him by the the priest Erskine who had devised a potion in order to create the perfect soldier to fight in the Six Year War. The mixture not only cured Steve of his illnesses but made him inhumanly strong. Erskine died that very same day by those that sought the potion for their own gain.

Swimming, he has found, is the best and most efficient form of training as it uses more muscles than any other form of exercise. So every morning he swims great distances in the gelid waters of the plunge pool at the foot of the waterfall until his body is sore and his muscles ache. He pushes himself, knowing that should he fail to use his enhanced body to its potential, he will be directly insulting the good priest’s memory.

Every morning he does this, but this morning is different. He’d had a restless and fitful sleep, deciding perhaps an hour earlier than usual to forfeit rest and head off to the water. When he arrives, however, he realizes that he is not alone. No, someone is playing music—It’s the familiar sound of a Nordic fiddle, but the way it’s being played! Steve has never known it was possible to play the instrument with such passion. The music harmonizes with the chirping of the crickets and the early birds, mimics the roaring of the falling water, and echoes the whispers of the wind’s hushed conversation with the trees, like it’s leading–no, conducting nature as if it were a band of skilled musicians performing for royalty. Steve realizes his cheeks feel wet, not having registered that he'd started crying.

He can almost see the faint outline of a man, skin aglow from the moon light and it’s reflection, nude and shrouded in the mist of the waterfall, leaning against the large rock that protrudes from the pool. Steve stills when he is just close enough to make out the details of the figure and he studies the features as if he were observing a painting.

The man has shoulder length, brunette hair, which falls in waves around his down turned face. Atop his head are two small antlers or horns, Steve can’t quite tell. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as he expertly weaves his bow across the strings of his hardingfele. The man keeps his eyes closed, long lashes casting soft shadows on his cheeks, while he moves the fiddle up and down, rapt in his playing. When he turns his head up Steve can see his sharp cheek bones, defined jawline and, _oh_ , his lips, a beautiful rose-pink color, the bottom lip a shade darker and more saturated from being bitten.

His chest is built just like Steve’s. His nipples pink like his lips, stand to attention from the wind cooling the water and sweat that coat his entire figure. Dark brown hairs trail down from his belly button to his nether, and Steve cannot help his eyes from lingering on the cock that dangles so freely between the fiddler’s legs. It is large and thick and even while soft, Steve can make out the inkling of a bluish vein on the left side. The head which peaks shyly through the opening of the foreskin is pink—almost the same rosy color as the man’s lips. His balls hang low, a lighter and less even coat of pubic hair covers part of them. Steve forces his eyes to wander further downward to admire the man’s perfectly toned thighs and calves.

When Steve looks back up, the man’s eyes are open and watching him. And, _oh_. _Oh, his eyes_. They are the color of a lake frozen during the winter, the color of clouds that warn of a storm; they are frost on steel during an early spring and dew on leaves during warmer weather. Steve is enchanted and enamored, drawn to promises of power and security, of release and acceptance, as if he were hearing the song of a siren.

Steve starts toward the him, but he has made no more than a yard in the direction of the rock atop which his enchanter stands, when the music ceases and the man retreats behind the waterfall into a cave that Steve is almost certain has never been there before.

Curious, Steve follows under the waterfall, only to find the same seemingly man-made ancient pillars sit where they always have on the left and right-hand side of the shallow grotto behind the rushing water. The man has vanished and the sounds of nature now seems disconnected like chaos, without their maestro to guide them. He spends the rest of his swim so distracted that in the late morning, he decides to cut his losses and return to town, perhaps see if he can find some answers about his strange experience.

Which is exactly what he does.

He finds himself sitting in the living room of Lady Carter’s small cottage while she busies herself in the kitchen preparing an herbal tea (regardless of the fact he told her not to and ignoring his offer to make the tea himself).

Lady Margaret Carter is as wise as she is beautiful with her shoulder length brunette waves and bold red lip. She is witty and sharp and just as stubborn as Steve, and this makes her one of his most treasured of friends which is precisely why he has come to her about his encounter.

She walks from the kitchen, heels clicking, and sets two steaming mugs on the coasters on her mahogany coffee table. She sits next to Steve on the couch and angles herself to face him properly.

“Now, what seems to be the issue, Steve?” She asks, the concern is just barely noticeable in her tone.

“Why does there have to be an issue? Maybe I just want to spend time with my best gal?” She gives him a sharp look—the ‘ _don’t waste my time, Steven Grant_ ’ look she does so well. “Okay, okay. I uh, I encountered someone at the waterfall this morning.”

“While that’s extremely odd, surely that isn’t the reason for your concern, is it?” She asks, curiosity now piqued.

“Well that, and he was nude–“ her eyebrows raise, “yes, completely nude, and he was playing a hardingfele, he–” he pauses for a moment to gather words that would aptly describe the music but, “I can’t even describe it, Pegs. It was like–like he was a conductor and the world was his orchestra, it was beautiful.“

His voice wavers and he can feel tears start to form in his eyes for the second time today as he recalls the raw emotions the music brought forth from within him—emotions that don’t have names, pure and complex, familiar and new. Peggy huffs out a soft chuckle, and his head snaps up, ready to be offended.

“Only you, Rogers.” Her gaze is a medley of fondness, exasperation and a dash of relief. “It’s like you attract the strange! If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were doing it on purpose.” She stands up with another chuckle.

"What in heavens are you on about, Peggy?” Steve calls as she makes her way to her bookshelf across the room. She runs her fingers across the middle shelf before pulling out an old blue book with silver and green accents.

“Oh, my dear man! You’ve heard the song of a Fossegrim, you lucky fool!” She calls back, quick, excited strides bringing her back beside Steve in mere seconds. She flips through the book stopping on a page with an ink illustration of a man in a waterfall playing a hardingfele much as Steve had been witness to mere hours ago.

“A fossegrim…” The word felt sacred on Steve’s tongue.

“They are an old Norse legend, a usually gentle neck that dwells near a waterfall and plays enchanting music on the hardingfele. They can make their audience feel strong emotions and desires with their song.

No one has seen one around these parts before, but I think Thor Odinson spoke of having a fossegrim local to his childhood village, and in the town of Albs there were stories of an enchanting fiddler, but he is said to have disappeared decades ago."

She gives him a meaningful look, “you were fortunate, they do not take kind to giving free performances and if angered, can make you feel ugly awful things that will keep you up at night.”

But Steve isn’t listening; his thoughts are filled with the beauty of the powerful creature, the longing in his song, the ice in his eyes.

“Steve?”

“He was beautiful, Peggy, but his song was lonely.”

“I would advise against going there again, but I know you will regardless of my worry. If you wish to speak with him properly you should bring him a thick, fresh cut of meat. That is their usual price.” She sighs, finishing her tea before setting it down again.“Be careful, Steve.”

Steve takes her cold hand into his own, and looks at her, concern written clear in her expression.

“Of course, Pegs. Thank you.” He kisses her hand and she rolls her eyes.

“You’re not nearly as charming as you think you are, Rogers.” She stands and leads him by the hand to her door. “Now get, the butcher’s should still be open for some hours yet.”

Five hours later, sun now low in the sky as the day tires out, Steve finds himself again approaching the foot of the waterfall, carrying the largest, freshest cut of meat money could buy.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  **[Lee](https://twitter.com/0rganists)** @0rganists · Dec 13  
>  not to be fucking gay but imagine buff steve training at the foot of a waterfall and  
> fossegrim bucky takes up residence in the cave behind the waterfall and steve  
> hears his song and falls in love.
> 
> Guess I'm doin' this myself.
> 
> You can find examples of the music that is played on the type of fiddle that Bucky uses called a Hardanger fiddle [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5N8yqx0W2w8), [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YDfM4ohPMcI), [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cc-WGo4N8h8), [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Owlhnsh75o4), and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jQgAPIsWn_U). It's inspired a lot of music from the Lord of the Rings songs especially the theme of Rohan.
> 
> You can find depiction of fossegrimen [here](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YOln0E8umFE/UbiQKuWD2zI/AAAAAAAAANw/pNvy0FqZsQs/s1600/tumblr_mbi4op7Z6j1rgh6lbo1_500.jpg), [here](http://vignette1.wikia.nocookie.net/warriorsofmyth/images/4/4f/Andvikfossegrimen_waterspir.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20120106100218), [here](http://njmonthly.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/Fossegrim.jpg), and [here](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/80/Ernst_Josephson_001.jpg/250px-Ernst_Josephson_001.jpg).
> 
> So I have no goddamn clue what I'm doing other than I'm not doing my school shit and not doing my other fic. Anyways, thoughts? Idk my twitter is 0rganists and thats where I'm at most of the time.


End file.
